


wild nights are my glory

by profdanglais



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 3b divergence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Mild Angst, Smut, Tattoos, much feelz, smut and feelings, tattoo appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26078443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdanglais/pseuds/profdanglais
Summary: 3B canon divergence with no second curse--Emma and Killian and a stormy night on the Jolly Roger. Smut and feelings and some tattoo love.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 14
Kudos: 213
Collections: Black Swans & Red Hooks, The Great Captain Swan No-Curse Renaissance





	wild nights are my glory

The _Jolly Roger_ creaks as the wind whips around her, groans as the waves lap roughly at her hull, and in his cabin Killian sits with his flask and his thoughts and the thrill in his blood that storms still inspire even after centuries. It’s a particularly wild one tonight but Killian is untroubled by that; he’s had many a wild night in his time and he knows his old girl can weather this one just as she has all the others. What’s troubling him is a storm of a different sort, and he lifts his flask to his lips and drinks deep as he tries not to think about the last time the _Jolly_ was buffeted by such winds as these. Tries, without success. 

_…the first mate’s cabin was smaller than his and he could hear more distinctly all the rattles and protests of the_ Jolly’s _old wood as they flew away from Neverland. Though it was only the third time his ship had flown, she was far older now than she had been those first two, and Killian was determined to keep an attentive ear out for anything that sounded off._

_A knock came faintly but sharply at the door, and he barely had time to say “Come in” before it was creaking open the merest sliver and then shutting again behind Emma Swan._

_“Swan?” He frowned as she approached him, trepidation in her eyes but the set of her jaw resolute. “Is everything all ri—“_

_She cut him off with her lips on his, as sweet and as demanding as they had been back in that accursed jungle. He gasped in surprise and she seized the advantage of his parted lips, slipping her tongue between them to slide against his, slick and hot and wrenching a groan from his chest as his fingers sank without his volition into her hair and she tilted her head to deepen the kiss still further._

_His own head spun, his blood pounding as he groped for control, for sanity—as the woman who’d been plaguing his dreams ever since that bloody beanstalk pressed her body to his and dragged her lips and teeth down his neck._

_“Swan,” he groaned. “Emma. What are you—”_

_“Shhhh,” she hissed against his collarbone. “Don’t talk. If you talk, you’ll ruin it.”_

_“But, love—”_

_“Are you going to say no, Hook? Because if not, shut up.”_

_“But—”_

_“Shut. Up.”_

_She pulled his mouth to hers again and he let her, kissed her back with every ounce of the passion she stirred in him and with the other, more troubling emotions that he knew she wouldn’t care to know about. These feelings—the awe, the tenderness, the indescribable pleasure of having a woman he treasured in his arms, after centuries of empty encounters—Killian feared them nearly as much as she did, knowing that he would be all the worse off for having felt them once they were gone. And they would be gone, far sooner than he wished, of that he was certain._

_But for now Emma was here, her skin smooth beneath his fingers, slick and wet when he slipped those fingers between her legs—softer than the finest Agrabahni silks, the most precious treasure he’d ever plundered. He ached to taste her, to linger over that silken skin and pleasure her for hours, but this was neither the time nor the place and the almost desperate haste in Emma’s touches told him plainly that she wouldn’t welcome lingering or the kind of worship he longed to lavish on her. So instead he simply stroked her as her fingers fumbled at the laces of his trousers then shoved them down—then her hand was on his cock, gripping it firmly, and he couldn’t choke back a heaving groan. Dimly he felt her leg wrap around his hip, the pressure of her fingers on his cock as she guided him, the rumble of her groan melding with his as he pushed inside her._

_Her face was pressed into his neck, her fingers clenched tight in his hair as he moved within her, hard and fast and rougher than he wished. He had no thoughts beyond how good it all felt—his fingers tangled in her golden tresses, their scent in his nose, her moans in his ear, the heat of her skin and his own fierce pleasure at feeling her around him tight and warm and wet—and the helpless certainty that whatever small chance he may have had of breaking free of this infatuation was long gone now—he was hers, completely and for all the time that may remain to him in this life._

_Her breath hitched and her grip on him tightened as she began to come, and as he tumbled right behind her, Killian vowed that in this, for once, he would not be selfish. Anything Emma needed he would do his best to give her, whatever the cost to himself. Securing her happiness, her future, that was all that mattered…_

Which left him here, thinks Killian wryly, holed up on his ship with his rum and his thoughts, the memories he can’t escape, while Emma is with her family, her son and her parents. And Neal. 

It’s for the best, he reminds himself. Families should be together. And if he can ensure for Emma that measure of love and security by ceasing his pursuit of her, well that is what he intends to do. 

The wind howls and the _Jolly_ creaks, and Killian shivers as he sips his rum. Even the burn of the alcohol is not enough to keep him warm on this stormy night. He should really go to bed, dig out an extra blanket and quit this pointless brooding, enjoy a rare occasion when he can relax his vigilance and sleep soundly, secure in the knowledge that he is in a place where very few dangers, relatively speaking, lurk in wait for him. 

Pan is gone, trapped forever in Pandora’s box. The Crocodile and he have buried their hatchet—and not in Killian’s skull. He’s beginning to settle into this Storybrooke, to become accustomed to their odd ways and lay the foundations for a life here. The few weeks since their return from Neverland have been pleasant on the whole, marred only by a distinct lack of Emma and those small but painful twinges just beneath his heart whenever he’s reminded that she and Neal have been spending quite a bit of time together. 

He drains his flask in one swallow and tosses it aside before rising easily to his feet and wishing, just for a moment, that he were drunker. His coat and vest he has long since removed and now he strips off his shirt and boots as well, neatly folding the one and placing the others next to the bed, then gives himself a quick wash at his basin before beginning to unlace his trousers. The wind is whistling shrilly and Killian is deep in his thoughts, and that is perhaps why he doesn’t hear the sound of boots on the deck or perceive the presence of another person on his ship until she flings open the door of his cabin and marches inside, windswept and breathless and beautiful. 

“Swan!” 

Killian gapes, wondering wildly if his moody thoughts have somehow conjured her, not missing the way her eyes widen at the sight of him standing there in such a state of undress, how they follow the trail of a water droplet as it trickles down his chest. During their encounter his clothing remained mostly on, his trousers shoved down but the rest intact—this is the first time Emma has seen him so bare. 

He can feel the flush in his cheeks, the heat rising up his neck and pooling in his groin as she openly ogles him, biting down on her lip in a way that makes him long to do the same. He clears his throat. 

“Is everything all right?” he asks. “Do you require my assistance with something?” 

“Tattoos,” she murmurs. 

“I—beg your pardon?” 

“Hmmm?” Her teeth sink deeper into the pink flesh of her lip and Killian grinds his teeth. 

“Is there something I can do for you, Swan?” he asks, sharply enough that she looks up and meets his eyes. 

“Yeah,” she says. “There is.” 

She crosses the room in two strides and runs her hand up his chest, curls it around the back of his neck and tugs his mouth to hers. Killian groans but he’s barely even reached for her before she’s pulling away, whipping off her jacket and sweater then pressing close to him again, twining her arms around his neck as she kisses him. The feel of her bare skin against his own, the soft brush of her hair on his shoulder and her tongue in his mouth—he’s helpless to resist it, or to deny her what she’s come to seek from him. 

Their hands on each other are frantic, uncoordinated. Killian vaguely recalls that he’s generally much better at this—when he’s not with Emma, that is, not overcome by the need to touch and taste and feel. He tugs at the scrap of lace covering her breasts with his hook, hears it rip—he supposes he should care about this but then her nipple is in his mouth, hard and pebbled against his tongue, and the noise Emma makes when he nips at it is nearly his undoing. She shoves him away to kick off her boots and shimmy free of those skintight trousers she wears and then Emma Swan is bare before him, and Killian wonders if it’s possible to perish from wanting. 

Her eyebrows rise in an expectant look and he quickly shucks his own trousers, then stands straight and lets her see the whole of him, heat creeping up his cheeks again as she boldly surveys his naked form. Her fingers brush lightly across his skin, up his sides and over his chest, tracing the patterns he’s had inked there—centuries’ worth of them, some faded and others bright, jumbled together in the story of his life. 

He holds his breath awaiting her reaction but she says nothing, simply wraps her arms around him and kisses him. He groans against her lips and lifts her up, tumbles them both onto the bed, rolling her beneath him as his own hand explores the dips and curves of her body. She cradles him between her thighs, rolls her hips to wet his cock with her arousal, and he wants, oh he _wants_ , to build up to this, to take his time, to make her come at least twice with his fingers and his tongue before he seeks his own release within her—but her nails are scoring deep gashes in his back and there’s a desperate catch in her throat as she whispers “Please… please, Killian…” and so with a groan he sinks into her, giving them both what they most deeply crave. 

It’s hard and it’s fast, though still slower than their first time, with no frantic rush for fear of interruption or any need to stifle the noises they make. Emma’s firm thighs grip his hips and the muscles of her stomach flex as she lifts her own to meets his thrusts, driving him near to madness. Strength wrapped in softness is Killian’s weakness, it always has been—and better still when the strength encases something even softer. Emma’s warm heart and the depth of her capacity for love is a thing he longs for as much as he does her body, and the bittersweet bliss of knowing the one without the other claws at his heart even as he groans his release into her hair, as he feels her clench and flutter around him, her arms drawn taut as they hold him close. 

When he rolls away they tighten further—just briefly but he takes heart from it and wraps an arm around her before she can slip away, pulling her flush against his chest. 

“Stay awhile,” he murmurs, soft against her temple. “Just… stay.” 

There’s tension in her body for a moment, then she relaxes and gives a nod. “Okay,” she whispers, so quietly he can barely hear her, but there can be no mistaking the way she snuggles closer, tucking her head beneath his chin and resting her hand on his chest, her fingers playing absently through the hair on it. 

He wants to ask her why she’s here when she should be with her family, snuggled up safely with them on this stormy night. He wants to ask but also isn’t sure he’d like the answer, and as they drift together into a slumbrous daze it’s as though a spell weaves itself around them, delicate as a spider’s web, and he is loath to do anything that may break it. 

Emma’s fingertips begin to trace along the lines of ink on his chest, following them up to his shoulder and back again, then down his torso to where they curl around his hip. 

“What do all of these mean?” she murmurs. 

“Various things.” His voice is gruff, with the pain of the memories and the pleasure of her touch. “Some are simply things I found appealing. Others are for commemoration, of battles and other events.” 

“Battles? Really?” 

“I was in Neverland for a long time, love, and Pan is far from the only unpleasant creature who once resided there. Do you see this?” He indicates a round scar on his abdomen, puckered and still pink even after nearly a century. 

Emma frowns at it. “It looks like a bullet wound.” 

“Aye, it does rather, but it isn’t. It’s where a manticore stabbed me with its tail.” 

“With its _tail_?” 

“They have tails like those of scorpions. Look, here he is.” Killian taps his hook on the image tattooed on his rib, of the lion-beast with the face of a man and an armoured, stinging tail. “Still not wholly certain how I survived that one.” 

“Oh.” She traces the scar with her fingertip than leans down to kiss it. He catches his breath as her lips press gently on the raised skin, then the tip of her tongue traces the shape of the manticore, over the curve of the tail and then downwards, along the rope that leads to the broken anchor nestled in his hip. 

“Why is it broken?” she murmurs, and Killian grits his teeth against the rush of sensation, the feel of her breath and her voice vibrating against his skin. 

“Anchors… represent security,” he grinds out. “Home. And, well—” 

“Yeah,” she says, and kisses the anchor. “I get it.” 

His skin feels on fire as she drags her lips across it, so slowly it’s agonising, drifting down, down to where his cock is hard and throbbing and desperate for her touch. 

“ _Emma,_ ” he groans, and then her mouth closes around him and he is no longer capable of forming words or even coherent thoughts. All he can do is feel—the heat of her mouth, the soft stroke of her tongue, the pressure of her lips as she sucks him. It’s so good and too much and he can’t hold out against it, and far sooner than he would wish it he is there on the edge, ready to fall. He tries to tell her but the words won’t come—then she is sucking harder and swirling her tongue around his tip and his hand clenches in her hair, hips bucking helplessly as he comes. 

It takes some time for him to recover; he lays panting and trembling as she kisses her way back up his body to rest her chin on his chest, and when at last he summons the strength to open his eyes she is watching him with a decidedly smug grin. 

“I like having you at my mercy,” she says. 

_I am always at your mercy_ , he thinks but does not say. Instead he growls in the back of his throat and kisses her, pressing her into the mattress as he slips his hand between her legs. She’s wet again, gratifyingly so, as though fellating him was nearly as pleasurable for her as he had found it. This he can understand—he’s been desperate to taste her for some time now and this is a game at which two can definitely play. 

He removes his fingers—smirking at her whimper of protest—and licks them clean as he holds her gaze, watching as a strange expression crosses her face. 

“Oh,” she says, dropping her eyes. “You don’t have to.” 

His heart twists as the confident, triumphant woman from just moments ago withers beneath the weight of what he imagines must be years of quick and dirty encounters with thoughtless men who lacked the sense to appreciate the treasure they had in her, and it breaks as he reflects again how similar they are. 

“Turnabout is fair play, love,” he says, knowing that the tender reassurance he wants to give her would not be welcomed. “And I have wanted to know how you taste for quite some time now.” 

Her eyes fly open and meet his, a bit shocked, a bit wary. A lot intrigued. “Have you?” she murmurs. 

“Aye. I have. And so, with your permission?”

She hesitates then gives a tiny nod, and he responds with a quick, rough kiss before moving down her body, pressing kisses as he goes until he reaches the small tuft of dark gold hair at the juncture of her thighs. She’s done something to it, trimmed and shaped it, and while this isn’t the first time he’s encountered such practices he can’t help wondering a bit at the strangeness of this realm, where sex seems to be something carried out in whispers in the dark and yet personal grooming must adhere to rigid standards. 

It hardly matters, though, not when he can smell her, musky and intense, making his head swim as he secures his arms beneath her legs, careful not to scratch her with his hook, and then finally— _finally_ —tastes her. 

She’s as delicious as he’s dreamed, more so, and the noise she makes when he licks deep through her swollen flesh fills him with both lust and fury. Fury that no one has ever done this for her before, not properly at least, and while she is plainly well-versed in the art of pleasuring a man with her mouth somehow none of the men she’s been with have seen fit to return the favour. 

Their loss, thinks Killian viciously, and his gain—for it is his privilege now to be the one to feel her gasp and writhe beneath his lips and savour her on his tongue, and to know the pleasure of working her up ever so slowly, higher and higher, so high and so close that she clutches at his head and tugs at his hair, hissing garbled curses as she frantically pushes herself against his mouth. 

When he knows he has her teetering just on the brink he licks hard at her pearl then sucks it between his teeth, glorying in her hoarse scream and the way her hips buck wildly beneath him as she comes. He licks her as she rides it out, until the tremors cease and her breathing evens, then rests his chin on her belly and smirks up at her. Her eyes flutter open and she gives a gasping laugh when she catches his eye. 

“All right, all right,” she says. “We’re even.” 

“Good.” 

He crawls back up the bed to kiss her, deep and messy, until she’s writhing again and digging her nails into his back and then he presses the tip of his cock against her, pausing to give her the chance to say no. She lifts her hips and the tip slips inside, and the edges of Killian’s rational mind go hazy again as he pushes in to the hilt and she groans in pleasure. 

He moves slowly this time, savouring her as he’s so long wished to, treasuring the little sighs and hums she makes in his ear and the way her hands roam his body. She traces the ridges of the scars on his back but does not flinch away, gently stroking the roughened skin as her mouth moves against his neck and her other hand buries itself in his hair. 

Killian feels swamped with emotion, with love and wonder and joy and agony. He thought their first encounter would be their last and now that she’s here again, letting him touch her in ways he’s only dreamt of and giving him a glimpse of what they could have together, he’s already dreading the pain of letting her go again as he knows he must. He knows her, knows she’ll run from this, and he promises himself he won’t try to push for more than she can give, however much he yearns for it. 

They fall softly this time but with resonance, bodies humming at the same frequency as ecstasy overcomes them. Once he’s back to himself Killian rolls again to his side but it’s Emma now who keeps him close, fitting her body to his so naturally it makes him want to weep, and he has to force himself not to squeeze her too tightly or let the words in his heart slip from his lips as he wraps her in his arms and strokes her hair. 

“I can’t stay,” she whispers. 

“I know.” 

He lets a moment pass before seeking the answer he needs, though he does not want it. “Why did you come?’ 

“I missed you.” 

He can tell she didn’t mean to say those words from the way her breath catches and her muscles tense, so he presses a kiss to her temple and murmurs “I missed you too.” 

“Then _why,_ ” she cries, shoving at his shoulder. “Why haven’t you been around? I thought you’d left again, that’s how much I’ve seen of you since we got back.” 

Killian swallows hard. There’s pain in her voice and he hates himself for causing it. “I didn’t wish to interfere with your family,” he says gruffly. 

“That’s stupid,” she snaps. “I know you’ve been sparring with David, he told me so. And Mary Margaret—well, she’s a bit tougher maybe, but—” 

“I didn’t mean your parents, love, I meant your son. And his—his father.” 

She stares at him as comprehension dawns. “You think I want to get back with Neal,” she says flatly. 

“Not necessarily, I just—didn’t wish to be an impediment if you did.” 

“That explains why he’s been so smug,” she mutters. “But _you’re_ an idiot.” 

“I’ve destroyed a lot of families, Emma,” he says quietly. “Including Bae’s. I merely didn’t wish to harm another.” 

“Well, you didn’t. You couldn’t. Neal destroyed whatever hope of a family we may have had when he left me pregnant in jail.” 

Killian jerks back to stare at her. “He _left_ you?” 

“Uh huh. Pregnant with his kid and in jail for his crime.” 

“Bloody _hell_ ,” he snarls. 

“Yeah. Still want to step aside so we can play happy families?” 

“Bugger that.” He brushes her hair back from her face, strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. “I’m sorry, Swan, I didn’t know.” 

She shrugs. “No one does. But I’m not getting back with Neal, Killian, I can’t. I’ll always have some feelings for him but I can never trust him again. And I can’t have a relationship without trust.” 

“Of course not.” 

His chest tightens and he swallows again, though a throat gone desert dry. If she can’t trust her first love and the father of her child after one betrayal, however terrible, there’s no way she could ever trust the pirate she left at the top of a beanstalk, a man who turned on her more than once and in doing so nearly cost the life of her son. The fact that he later turned back and helped to right his wrong is far too small an act to balance the weight of all his other sins against her. 

It’s what he deserves, he knows that, but that doesn’t make the taste of it less bitter as he forces a smile and says “Well, don’t let me keep you love, if you need to get back to Henry.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” She blinks in surprise then frowns, but makes no move to leave the bed. The wind howls around the ship and rattles the ancient glass in the cabin windows. “Is it raining?” she asks. 

He listens carefully until he can detect the faint patter of raindrops against the glass. “Aye, I think so.” 

“Hmmm.” She still doesn’t stir but he gradually becomes aware that her fingers are moving, the tips trailing mindless patterns through the hair on his chest. His heart begins to pound. “Henry’s with Regina tonight,” she says. “Maybe—I might just stay a bit longer, until the rain lets up. If, um, if that’s okay?” She casts a glance up at him and he nearly chokes on his breath at what he sees in her eyes. 

“Emma,” he breathes. “You must know, love—you can stay as long as you like.” _Stay forever._

The smile that breaks across her face is bright with relief, warm and hesitantly happy. “Okay,” she says, and snuggles closer. “Okay.” 

—


End file.
